Luca knew that what Bannatyne said was true. He had been relieved when Davie was sent down for the warehouse robbery. He knew about the attempts on Davie’s life in prison, too. He could not deny that he was disappointed that none of them succeeded. He also knew that Davie was not the type to let sleeping dogs lie. He saw Bannatyne watching him closely but Luca was too experienced to let his thoughts reflect in his face. ‘These things you say are true, but I’m glad Davie’s getting out. We will all be glad to see him.’
Bannatyne nodded, not expecting anything else. ‘Good. Because we don’t want any unpleasantness to mar the peace of our great city, do we? Things have been relatively quiet these past few years. Let’s hope they don’t get out of hand.’ Bannatyne finished his scone and drained his coffee. ‘Always a pleasure, Luca.’ He dropped some coins on the tabletop. ‘That should cover what I owe. Plus tip.’
Luca scooped the money in his hand and nodded. They shook hands again and Bannatyne left with nothing further to say. Luca stood in the aisle looking thoughtfully at the money in his hand but not really seeing it. He must be getting old, missing the date of Davie’s release. He hoped he wasn’t slipping. That could be deadly.
When he looked up he saw the eyes of Joe Klein watching him from his booth.
8
TICK…
The clockwork routine of the little alarm counted the minutes. In prison, where inmates are allowed very few personal belongings, that cheap Made in Hong Kong timepiece was old Sammy’s most prized possession, apart from his supply of fags. It was not the only sound in the cell, for the old man in the bottom bunk still snored softly and the cavernous halls of the Victorian jail continued to echo with various clangs. Davie could not sleep after the dream. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the night-time sounds as his mind roamed over his life in prison.
Tick…
Normally he slept well, even with the dreams, but not tonight. For this was to be his last night inside. The following morning he would slop out for the last time, say goodbye to the few inmates he took anything to do with and then he would be processed and free.
It had been a long time coming.
Tick…
The old clock no longer worked as an alarm, but the single sound it did make told him that time was passing, albeit slowly. It always passed slowly in the jail, slower than he had thought possible. After ten years inside he was an old hand, even if he was only twenty-eight. Old Sammy in the bunk below had been locked up almost twice that time. He had killed a man back in the seventies, gunned him down during a payroll snatch that went wrong. He had been forty then, a handy guy to have around during a blag, certainly. But no gunman. He had tried to stop an accomplice from killing a security guard, but during the struggle the shotgun went off and blew away a chunk of the guy’s chest. Sammy’s accomplice was never caught and Sammy never grassed him up. Only Sammy’s fingerprints were found on the weapon, which was dropped at the scene, and he went down for the murder. He was given Life with a minimum of twenty years and Sammy was bitter and angry about the deal he had been dealt so he took it out on the system. Eventually he settled down and was something of an elder statesman on the galleries.
Davie met him almost immediately after leaving the Governor’s office back in 1982. He was transferred from ‘B’ Hall to ‘A’ Hall and given his new co-pilot. Although Davie had agreed to behave himself, the Colonel had decided not to take any chances and put him in with Sammy.
He was a tall man, a good foot taller than Davie, and his thick grey hair was swept back from his forehead in a wave you could surf on. The bristles on his jaw and chin were showing white but his face was remarkably smooth, only the tell-tale crow’s feet at his eyes betraying his years. He gazed at Davie through narrowed eyes, as if he was sizing him up. Later Davie discovered that Sammy’s eyesight was failing, but he was too vain to wear glasses. However, it was Sammy’s first words he would never forget.
‘So, son – I hear you’re planning to be a fuckwit?’
Davie didn’t know quite how to respond, but Sammy wasn’t one to let it lie. ‘Mug’s game, that, take it from me. I’ve been there, done that, wore the fuckin t-shirt. Done it all, me – hunger strikes, dirty protests, flung my shit around like a fuckin baboon. Got me nowhere, except a series of kickings from the muftis and time added. But see now? Just do my time, get on with it.’
‘You just gave in?’ Davie couldn’t help himself. He may have reached an agreement with the Colonel, but he hadn’t yet decided if he would really stick to it.
Sammy smiled and the expression seemed to take years off his face. ‘Naw, son. Prison’s a force of nature and you can’t win against a force of nature. But hey, it’s up to you, son. You want to be a fuckwit, you go your own merry way. Me? I just hope they don’t come to the wrong bed when they burst in, that’s all. ‘Cos see they screws out there? They think you’re nothin more than animal and you need to be caged. They’re no here to rehabilitate, they’re here to keep you banged up because they and the outside world think that’s what you deserve. And if you do what I think you’re gonnae do, you’ll prove them right. Don’t do it, son. Prove them wrong and get the fuck out of here.’
As time went on, Sammy told him that he had decided to get that speech over with as soon as possible. He wasn’t on the screws’ side, far from it. He felt the prison system could be too dehumanising and when the shit hit the fan, he hoped he’d be there to see it. But all he wanted now was to finish his term and get out, get back to his family. He hadn’t joined the system, not in his head, but merely played it at its own game, used it against itself. Protests just brought you solitary and that made time stretch, an hour banged up in segregation was like a day on the galleries, where inmates had access to recreation, to education, to work.
The screws treated Sammy differently from the other convicts. They knew what he was capable of and they knew he chose not to do it, not because he was beaten or bullied but because he had found another way. Sammy took no shit from any of the young scroats who passed through the hall. Davie once saw him deliver an open-handed slap to a young boy from Govan who stepped out of line. The boy’s eyes burned and Davie was ready to pile in, but Sammy just stepped closer, thrust his chin into the boy’s face and stared at him. That’s all he did, just stared straight into the scroat’s eyes, daring him to make another move. The boy backed down. A screw stood nearby and watched the whole thing. He would have done something had things got out of hand, but he knew the best course of action was to let Sammy deal with it.
It was Sammy who told him how to handle prison life, to focus on the little things and avoid thinking about the big picture. It’s not one day at a time, it’s one hour at a time, he said. Look forward to something every week – pie, beans and chips at teatime maybe, or the few hours a week out in the fresh air. Don’t think about life outside, what you could be doing, because that will make it worse. The prison is your life, its routines your routines. Your peter is a dirty, stinking hole, but it’s home, be it ever so humble. Slopping out is degrading and disgusting, but take comfort in the fact that while you’re standing in line holding your chamber pot and then pouring it down the sluice, the screws are also subjected to the same stench and the sight of the shit getting tipped out.
Not thinking about life outside was made easier after Audrey stopped coming to see him.
Davie would never forget that final visit, shortly after his conviction for Harris. He knew what she was going to say before she said it. He could tell by her stiff features and the tension in her muscles as she walked towards the table. He knew what was about to happen and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Even if he wanted to.
‘I can’t do this, Davie,’ she said as soon as she sat down. No beating about the bush. She’d probably been thinking about it for days. He didn’t say anything. He knew she wasn’t finished. ‘I was in court. I heard what happened.’
That surprised him. He hadn’t seen her there. But then he’d been so angry with the deal he was being dealt that nothing else mattered.
‘I really thought you could change. I really did. But you can’t, can you?’
He wanted to tell her that Harris had gone for him, that a screw called Lomas had put him up to it. He wanted to tell her that he had changed, that what he had done was purely in self-defence. But he didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have made any difference. But still, he felt something inside wither and die. Even Audrey thought he was a monster.
After that he didn’t send her any visitor passes and she didn’t ask for them. He did not phone her. There were no letters. He saw her by-line in the
Evening Times
for a time, but then they stopped. For a while he wondered where she had gone, wondered what she was doing, wondered if she ever thought of him. Finally he tried not to think about her at all and he even managed it, at least during the daylight hours when there was something else to take up his attention: work, exercise, meals, routine. But he could not control his dreams. Audrey had represented the possibility of another life, and now that had been taken from him and his subconscious refused to let go. Some nights he would wake up thinking she was there with him, her voice soothing, her fragrance comforting, only to find Sammy’s snores and the stink of the piss pots.
Davie followed Sammy’s advice and kept his head down. There were three further attacks over the years – one witnessed by a screw who was able to state to the Colonel that McCall had reacted purely in self-defence. Even so, they put paid to any notion of early release. Another nobody knew about – Sammy arranged for the attacker to be removed without fuss until he came to, his bruises put down to slipping on a bar of soap. The screw asking the questions didn’t believe a word of it, but he wasn’t inclined to press further. Bars of soap were commonly left on floors in Barlinnie. Tripping and falling over in a peter was also prevalent. Prison can be a dangerous place for the accident prone.
None of the attackers would say who sent them. They were too scared. Although nobody was talking, Davie remained convinced that his father was behind the attacks. He still had questions, lots of questions, concerning Joe’s death and how he had ended up in prison in the first place, but to get the answers he needed to be free. Even without the additional blemishes on his record, parole was out of the question as he would never admit to having attacked Donald Harris, and that was a prerequisite. He knew he would serve his full term.
But when he got out, he’d find the answers.
* * *
Audrey was at home watching
TV
when Les returned home from the backshift. She was ready for bed, sitting in the big, soft armchair she loved so much, legs tucked underneath her, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, sipping a mug of hot chocolate. It had been a habit to which her father had introduced her, hot chocolate before bed, and she’d never stopped it. Les thought it cute and girlish. She heard him drop his keys in the glass bowl on the table in the hallway of their flat and then he stepped into the living room. He was not surprised to see her still up. She always waited up for him: even when he was on nightshift she was generally already out of bed to greet him, unless he was late and she had to get to work.
He crossed the room, leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. It was a long kiss because she reached up with her free hand and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling him tighter against her. When they finally broke he straightened again and smiled. He asked, ‘You done something wrong or are you just glad to see me?’
She smiled. ‘Can’t a girl kiss her husband hello?’
‘I dunno. You don’t normally kiss me like that when I get home. You been drinking?’
She gave him a stern look. ‘You’re taking all the romance out of this. You’re not in an interview room now, Detective Constable Les Fraser.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘All the romance out of what?’
She laid the mug she was holding on the coffee table beside the armchair and stood up, stepping closer to her husband, looking into his face. He was very handsome, even when he was tired and unshaven. Brown hair, brown eyes, a kind smile showing strong, even teeth. He was slightly taller than her so she stood on her toes to reach him as she kissed him again, both hands framing his face, her tongue moving between his lips. His hands snaked round her waist and under her t-shirt to caress the flesh of her back and side.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He breathed.
‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ she said as she took his hand and led him to the bedroom.
Later, as he slept, she reflected on why she had been so intent on sex that night. She enjoyed it as much as the next woman, as long as the next woman wasn’t some raving nympho. She particularly enjoyed it with Les but he was right, she did not often come on that strong. It wasn’t uncommon for her to initiate proceedings when, as Les had pointed out, she had a drink in her. But tonight was different. Tonight she felt that she had to have him, had to be close to him, had to feel his hands on her and feel him inside her. She told herself she didn’t know why. She told herself she just suddenly felt horny. She told herself she loved her husband and she wanted him. She told herself all that and some of it was even true.
But she knew what caused her need. Barc had raised memories. Jinky – Donald Harris – had planted them firmly in her mind. They had stayed with her for two days.